


All the good we cannot see

by shelter



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, F/F, Forsaken, Guilt, Prisoner Scenario, Suramar (Warcraft), Sylvanas gets what she wants, Tattoos, hopelessness, slow burn across 4 chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24284431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shelter/pseuds/shelter
Summary: AU. Five years after Varok Saurfang bests Sylvanas Windrunner at the Mak'Gora, First Arcanist Thalyssra breaks a promise to the Banshee Queen.
Relationships: Thalyssra/Sylvanas Windrunner
Comments: 11
Kudos: 53





	1. Rains

**Author's Note:**

> This fic would not have been possible without the help of my beta [wolfandwild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfandwild/works)

_"They wrote the country’s borders_  
_(upon my body and yours)_  
_in flesh-ligatured words._  
_My word upon your word_  
_(as my body upon yours)_  
_in flesh-conjugated words.”_  
\- **Kalaam** , Mashrou’ Leila

* * *

* * *

**1.**

**Rains**

.

.

When it rains in Suramar, First Arcanist Thalyssra knows she will find Sylvanas Windrunner down by the shore.

After ten thousand years under its Nightwell-generated shield, the sight of incoming rain amazes Thalyssra. She loves to stand on the ridges overlooking Suramar City, watching storm clouds swallow the Nighthold and the city's domes on their long crawl inland.

The humid air is soupy and rich, and for every breath Thalyssra takes, she feels like she's drinking from the atmosphere. In a bid to outrun the storm, she activates a portal back to her estate. One moment she's traversing the stone steps downhill, and a moment later she arrives in her porch, dead leaves dancing between her feet.

The rain throws a curtain of dancing water over the gardens. Wind harasses the trees. As raindrops bang a wild message on the roof of the porch, she counts to a hundred.

Then she activates an arcane shield over her head, and heads out to look for the Banshee Queen.

She takes the path leading to the sea. Whispers from the trees follow her all through this wild part of her estate. Just before the trees end and the beach begins, she sees a Duskwatch guard reveal himself from his perch among the trees.

"First Arcanist."

"Aran'arcana. Is she there?"

The guard gestures seaward. Thalyssra follows the direction of his hand onto the wet beach, the waterlogged sand consuming her steps. Out on the gentle incline of the bay, on a rocky outcrop, sits the former Warchief of the Horde.

"How's the weather?" Thalyssra asks.

"Stormy. Gale-force winds. Rain, lightning and thunder."

Sure enough, lightning veins the clouds far off the coast. The echoing thunder carries up the crescent-curve of the bay to them.

Thalyssra has never been gotten used to the height difference between them. Even when she kneels in the sand, as she does now, she still towers a head above the Dark Lady.

"You'll get your silks dirty, First Arcanist."

"You're the one in the rain."

"It's the only thing that gives me relief from your tattoos."

Sylvanas flashes a pale arm. The snaking, black symbols curls across her bicep and up into the shadow of her armpit, making it look like she's wearing an extra sleeve. Raindrops hit the dark shapes on her arm, mixing with the arcane energy imbued in them. Sometimes they hiss, dissolving the rainwater.

More lightning, accompanied by the growl of thunder. The wind and rain intensifies. Thalyssra finds herself staring at the foamy tide as it licks at Sylvanas's exposed toes.

The Banshee Queen sighs.

"I'm worried," she says.

"Yes?"

"I'm worried about you."

"About me?"

"You keep talking to Theryn."

Thalyssra turns to Sylvanas. It's the one of the rare moments her charge – prisoner – has ever expressed anything other than rage or indifference to her.

She can't resist answering though: "We're good friends from the Rebellion."

"As if that's possible."

"He's a good conversationalist. Better than you."

"It's time to move on, First Arcanist. Accept reality."

The rain falls in fat, toad-like drops. One hits Thalyssra right in between her eyes despite her arcane shield. Sylvanas turns her head to receive the rain. The splatter and splash of water reveals the outline of the arcane collar fastened around her neck, its ghostly shape like a faded golden noose. Thalyssra sees how the collar chafes against the skin, leaving a rotting swathe from the basin of Sylvanas's collarbone to her throat. 

"Says the one who spends all her time talking to the dead," Thalyssra says.

"It's my job. I'm the Dark Lady."

"So you are."

"The dead talk. But all you have is a mad creature, and bits and pieces of your memories."

"And what do the dead tell you?"

"To be at peace with the present."

"Huh."

"They also tell me a great many Nightfallen died to liberate your city–"

Thalyssra doesn't want to be drawn into another of the Banshee Queen's arguments. So she keeps silent. The rising tide begins to pool at her knees, soaking into her tunic.

Behind, their Duskwatch guard yawns. Sylvanas' eyes are closed: the wind lashes her wet hair against her throat. Her tattoos fizzle in the rain, and steam pours off her body in curling wisps. Thalyssra stays, getting wetter by the minute. She'll never admit it to Sylvanas, but she likes the company of someone who isn't dead or Withered once in a while.

* * *

When the rain ends, Thalyssra dusts the sand from her knees and returns to her home. She cuts slabs of Arcan'dor fruit, seasoned with herbs and honeyed Arcwine. The moon rises over Suramar as she brings these foods, like a ritual offering, when she talks to Theryn.

The gardens are glassy with rain. Theryn, drawn by the orb of the moon in the puddles, wanders in. As Thalyssra sets the fruit and Arcwine down on a table in her garden pavilion, he gives her the slightest of nods before pawing at the snack.

"Hello Theryn."

"Hm."

"Do you remember what I told you the last time?"

In her years of research into reversing the effects on the Withered, she's come to the conclusion that certain magical herb infusions in Arcwine give the Withered the capacity to think and talk. Along with constant consumption of Arcan'dor fruit, Withered like Theryn seem to develop a limited self-awareness. 

"I was telling you how much I miss Valtrois and her quick wit."

Theryn raises his weathered raisin of a face, smeared with Arcan'dor pulp, to her. "Friend?"

"Yes, she was a dear friend. One of my best friends."

"Ugh."

"She looks like this, if you've forgotten."

She raises a staff to her forehead, communes with her own memories. A phantom shade of Valtrois appears, walking to them. She's discoloured, getting greyer as Thalyssra's own memories decay. Theryn touches the facsimile of Valtrois, amused that his hand goes right through it.

"Friend?" he mumbles.

"She would've been a great Grand Magistrix."

"Ugh."

"Oculeth too."

The dark grey shadow of Oculeth, the Chief Telemancer that fought with Thalyssra during the Rebellion, materialises. His mouth moves voicelessly, arguing with Valtrois. Theryn paws at them, his eyes shadowlit with awe.

"Friend?"

"You remember them?" she asks him, not expecting a response. "Do you know they're dead?"

Thalyssra sighs. She clears the phantoms, fearing her memories of their deaths will play out here, in her garden.

She remembers the rogue who stabbed Valtrois on the steps of the Nighthold. A Nightborne dissident. By the time she got to Valtrois, a line of her blood had cascaded down the entire flight of stairs to the ground below.

She remembers the exaggerated look of recognition Valtrois had, the fel blade burning into her chest. The dark magic from that blade caused every tattoo in her body to flare. In her final moments, Thalyssra had held onto the tiny isthmus of Valtrois's waist as black spidery veins made her skin a gruesome pavement of infected blood.

And Valtrois's last words haunt her: "Of course! You're the First Arcanist! Of course, I trust you!"

Thalyssra never knew opening the Nighborne to the wider world would bring so much pain.

"Friend?"

Theryn holds out a chunk of Arcan'dor fruit to her. His jaw works at the fruit he's eaten, wine dribbling down the side of his chin.

"Thank you, Theryn."

"Hm."

"I talk too much about the past," she nibbles on the succulent fruit. "Maybe I should bring you to see Sylvanas."

"Friend?"

"Yes, she is."

"Hm."

He sips from his glass and places it atop the empty plate. When she sees this, Thalyssra knows the conversation is over. As if on cue, he gently backs away from the table, all the while savouring the residue from his fingers. Thalyssra makes a mental note: this round of infusions don't have any visible effect.

"An'ratha adore, my friend," she says.

"Hm," he responds.

* * *

Sometimes, Thalyssra finds herself amazed at how a series of decisions can change the course of everything. Of course, in Thalyssra's mind, it begins with the Mak'gora.

Hours before the Mak'gora she had no idea would happen, she makes a choice: she sides with Varok Saurfang. This is the first fateful decision, a violent prelude to cradling Valtrois as she bleeds away from demon magic years later.

The event itself has become Horde legend. Sylvanas uses all her dark magic, but Saurfang soldiers on. Against all odds, he bests the Banshee Queen. He spares her, because of _honour_. Still, the image of the exhausted, wrecked body of Saurfang standing over Sylvanas haunts her for a long time. 

And so, by virtue of being allied with Saurfang's rebels, she's asked to make decisions that will affect the lives of Orcs, Trolls, Sin'dorei, Goblins, Forsaken and – the Dark Lady herself.

Thalyssra sits on the combined council that discusses Sylvanas's fate. There, she learns about the history of missteps and mistrust between Horde and Alliance. She learns of Garrosh Hellscream, the manufacturing of Blight, Arthas Menethil and a hundred other events that allow one person to feel morally superior to another. There are accusations, but no solutions.

Saurfang dies of his wounds received at the Mak'gora. Forsaken loyalists threaten the council. The Horde almost splits into factions.

During these discussions, the words _indefinite detention_ are raised frequently.

This is when Thalyssra makes a second decision. When almost all Horde and Alliance leaders seem resigned to leaving Sylvanas in a vault in the Violet Hold in Dalaran, she offers Suramar. Far enough to make any loyalist attempt at rescue difficult, but still full of enchantments and peaceful.

She does this because she believes Suramar to be where the Banshee Queen can be held safely – and humanely.

Because she believes it's time the Nightborne contribute – sacrifice – something for the people of Azeroth.

She consults with the best mages and shamans in Suramar, Dalaran and Orgrimmar. How would they contain the Dark Lady's shadowy powers without bringing harm to the Nightborne?

She and Valtrois propose something radical: grounding the Banshee Queen's dark magic to the ley lines in Suramar. By reversing traditional Nightborne tattoos, they theorise they will be able to nullify Sylvanas's powers. Enchantments within these markings will leech dark power, through arcane connections with ley lines.

When the Kirin Tor finds no objections, Thalyssra gets the brilliant Ly'leth Lunastre to convince the leaders. She appeals to both sides. The Alliance gets to wash their hands of a dangerous rebel; the Horde deals with its own guilt by self-policing its rogue ex-Warchief.

"Will this work?" King Wrynn asks.

"We will make it work," Thalyssra remembers Ly'leth saying. "For the sake of everyone who's lost someone in this long, pointless war."

"But – who will do the actual imprinting?"

Thalyssra volunteers.

It takes three years. Using Valtrois's sketches of what Nightborne tattoos would look like if they were inverted, she uses enchanted needles, dipped in arcane-infused ink. She sculpts arrows, crescent moons, and other shapes so ancient she doesn't know the words for them. She works with at least five archmages for security. She works in a compound magically-sealed from the outside, guarded by the Duskwatch, the Silver Covenant and a hundred elite Kor'kron.

No one knows if Nightborne arcane magic has ever worked against necromancy. No one knows what happens if the Dark Lady activates her powers. But Thalyssra trusts their theories. 

At first, Sylvanas doesn't hide her disgust.

"Look at you, First Arcanist. Doing the bidding of the _people of Azeroth_. Now let me thank you when I'm free–"

But it works. By all the Shal'dorei, it works. First, the Banshee Queen can't summon her shadows. The more elaborate tattoos burn when she attempts to use her abilities. Her explosive wail softens into a throaty annoyance. She struggles, strapped to her chair, against her arcane bonds. Even the glow from her eyes fade.

 _Traitor_ , she says. _We should've left you to the demons._ When fury has no effect, the Dark Lady bargains. _I'll give you everything you want, in life and undeath, if only you stop_. After that, passive-aggressiveness. _Why don't you talk to me?_

And finally, pleading.

Thalyssra learns to focus on the ink bleeding into skin. She devotes her senses to creating a map of Suramar's ley lines into Sylvanas's skin. Undead skin is unique. S o every time she draws –from the tips of her fingers, to the pressure points, to the surface every working muscle – she cleans and massages delicately, to prevent decay.

After Valtrois's assassination, Thalyssra makes a third, decisive choice: she takes over the project personally. She finishes Valtrois's sketches, gives up her place on the Horde Council and sees no one but Sylvanas and their guards.

"You're only doing this because you're full of guilt," Sylvanas says to her one day.

She doesn't respond, instead gently tries to get her charge to raise her arm. When she encounters resistance, the archmages take over.

"You've lost everyone you love," Sylvanas says. "Because you made a choice."

Many choices, many consequences. Thalyssra thinks there's no single decision –

"And all you have left is me."

"I did what I could. For the Nightborne."

"Keep believing that, First Arcanist."

"I do."

"If it gives you peace."

It doesn't, Thalyssra thinks, though she would never admit it to Sylvanas.

"When you're done playing the artist, and I'm gone from here," the Banshee Queen says, the monstrous banshee inflection still present in her voice, "you will have nothing left."

"Whatever you say, Sylvanas."

"Except your memories, and your Withered."

Thalyssra pauses. Her archmage guards don't meet her eye, uncomfortable with the personal turn of the conversation. The Banshee Queen sits back in her chain, her toothy smile a flash of white amidst the glimmer of her chains.

"But don't worry, First Arcanist," she says. "I won't abandon you."

* * *

Thalyssra learns that pre-dawn, that twilight zone when Suramar almost concludes its day, is the best time to break bad news to Sylvanas.

She isn't sure how to approach this. All she knows is, last week, Sylvanas failed a crucial test. The aptly named Advisory Committee of Horde and Alliance leaders had spoken to her. They felt she was still unrepentant, and have asked Thalyssra to remove some of her privileges. Or limit her powers even further. 

Thalyssra heads to the outskirts of the city via a telemancy pad, then passes through several enchanted wards. For a moment, everything looks dimpled by heat, an effect of the powerful magic. When the world becomes stable, she continues.

She finds the Dark Lady's Duskwatch guards at the range. They're betting their Arcwine canteens on whether Sylvanas will miss her target. So far The Dark Lady has collected five rations.

Sylvanas stands in shooting position at the range. Seeing her there, clad like a Ranger in a borrowed Duskwatch hood, the contoured flare and furl of her body, reminds Thalyssra of the days when Sylvanas was Warchief, leading from the front.

For some reason, something twists deep in Thalyssra's chest. Longing, maybe. Or grief.

When Thalyssra approaches, one of the guards raises her hands, and all of Sylvanas's weapons disappear.

"Arcane weapons," she says. "You could've given me a warning."

"For your security."

"Or yours?"

Thalyssra waves her staff. The bow and five arrows reappear.

Sylvanas nocks an arrow. Like in the rain, her fingers steam, coming into contact with arcane magic. She draws the bowstring to her lips, and fires five arrows in quick succession into the targets. Thalyssra sees how her muscles bulk under her cloak, the ease at which she deals the killing shot.

When Sylvanas turns to face her, she notices how the arcane string of the bowstave has burned a trench into the pale cushion of her lips.

"Entertained yet?"

"Does it hurt when you touch those?"

"Are you concerned I can't wield a weapon, First Arcanist?"

"I'm trying to make sure you can still do some things–"

"And I'm supposed to be grateful, right?"

"I didn't–"

"I am grateful. You're the person I love most in the world."

She goes to where the guards are watching, and draws more arcane arrows from a quiver that's always full. Thalyssra sees the pads of her tattooed fingers have become blackened crusts. She even winces when she picks up the arrows.

"Aw. My declaration of love doesn't satisfy you?"

"You're hurting yourself."

"That's my business."

Effortlessly, she sinks another two more arrows into her target. The guards say they have no more canteens.

When Thalyssra starts to smell the roasting acrid odour to burning flesh, she waves her staff again. Everything disappears. Sylvanas doesn't change her posture. So Thalyssra takes her hands and begins to heal them.

"Why do you bother?"

Thalyssra doesn't say anything.

There's the fried skin curling around her fingers, and the heady putrid scent of death. How does undead flesh deal with long-term exposure to the arcane? Thalyssra doesn't know. All she knows is the tattoos are still there, and Sylvanas's palm lies like a jittery, warm bird in hers.

"You're admiring your work," she says.

"I'm just–"

"You're acting all concerned about me today. What's going on, First Arcanist?"

Thalyssra comes clean. "Horde and Alliance Committee want a review on your conditions. They think–"

"So you're _reviewing_ me."

"They think–"

"That I deserve to be in chains. Or dead."

"Sylvanas –"

"Promise me something, First Arcanist." Then, in a voice that makes her name sound like a slur. " _Thalyssra_."

"No."

"Come on. I'll release you from your first promise–"

"No."

"You're not even going to hear it?"

Thalyssra decides she's had enough. But she takes two steps back and feels the rough friction of the Banshee Queen's seared fingers holding onto her arm. The guards get to their feet. Thalyssra tells them to stand down.

Sylvanas steps into her space, until the top of her hood nudges Thalyssra's nose. When Thalyssra looks down, she sees the sharp, curved teeth of a grin, the column of tattoos hurtling down the hollow of Sylvanas's throat into the oblivion of her chest.

"Promise me you'll tell me things to me straight."

"I'm not promising you anything."

"If they decide to burn me –"

"I'll tell you when I return. In two days."

"Hm. Easier than I thought."

Sylvanas detaches herself and returns to her position before the target. Her hair flames to one side in the wind. As she returns several canteens to the guards, she opens one for herself.

"A toast to the First Arcanist, hero of the Nightfallen Rebellion–"

But Thalyssra turns and walks away.

.

.

.

**_End: Chapter 1_ **


	2. Storms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First Arcanist Thalyssra has an honest chat with Lady Liadrin on how they changed. Meanwhile, faced with her mortality, Sylvanas offers Thalyssra an unlikely proposition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thankful for the hard work and time of my beta [wolfandwild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfandwild/works). Any mistakes are mine and mine alone.

_"You shot through my anger and rage_  
 _to show me my prison was just an open cage._  
 _There were no keys, no guards,_  
 _just one frightened man and some old shadows for bars."  
_ \- **Living Proof** , Bruce Springsteen

* * *

* * *

**2.**

**Storms**

.

.

.

Thalyssra hates the Nighthold.

The place is the repository for too many memories, from Elisandre to Valtrois and Oculeth. The blood of so many Nightborne saturates its coral-white steps, invisible only for the incessant scrubbing and revisions of weather and time. Now, she only visits it to travel by telemancy to other cities or to receive visitors to Suramar.

So every time she needs to get there, she walks, hoping the delay will let her steel herself.

The streets are filled with Nightborne and the calmly-walking Withered. Ever since she's released her findings on Theryn, Suramar's vintners have distributed her infusions. Many Withered have been pacified.

She sees a lady walking hand-in-hand with a Withered, probably a relative. From Thalyssra's viewpoint, they're having a one-way conversation. Another navigates a boat in the canal, with two Withered as his only passengers. As she passes under an arched bridge, a gardener and a Withered lean on the rails above. They stare down at her, avoiding eye contact. 

Today, the wide, quiet avenues of the Nighthold gardens are wrapped in a thick gauze of ocean-smelling fog. Drooping flowers fill the beds, their posture like a thousand dejected persons staring at the soil.

Before she enters the main complex, Thalyssra always stops at the Forsaken shrine at its entrance. 

She feels for them: their capital taken, their Dark Lady a prisoner, their loyalties always suspect. So, in solidarity, the Nightborne gave the cleaned-up Felsoul Hold to Forsaken refugees. In return, those refugees have maintained a shrine to their Queen at the Nighthold. Even if she left them and called them nothing, they still choose to deify her.

Today, Duskwatch sentries patrol the area around the shrine. A handful of Forsaken clean the offerings. Thalyssra runs her hand through the Forsaken battle standards, and over the candles melted into collapsing totems of wax. A new necklace of bony fingers adorns the main pole. As always, when she's among anything Forsaken, she hears the soft whispers of faraway voices.

The shrine is loaded with flies. The sour stench of unwashed wounds fills the air. But Thalyssra overrules any attempt to clear it.

Soon she'll leave these wide broad avenues and this messy shrine for a meeting with the Horde and Alliance Committee in Orgrimmar via portal. But before she leaves, Thalyssra sees a hooded Forsaken lady straightening the banners. She carves arrowheads from bones, lines them around the shrine. It looks like the shrine now has a mouth with teeth – a face warping with sorrow.

* * *

"You look like you came from a duel with a demon."

"Just ended a session with the Horde and Alliance leaders about Sylvanas–"

"Ah. Say no more."

"They're supposed to be on my side–"

"Don't talk. Come with me."

Thalyssra follows. She goes under overlapping canopies, through alleys flooded with shadow and up stairs built into the canyon like a giant's ribs. In the sky above, the huge bird-shapes of zeppelins roost on the top of a tower. But they climb above the zeppelins, along a path carved into the canyon. They stop at a grotto, the path dusting into nothingness, the entirety of Orgrimmar below.

Thayssra doesn't know if the grotto is natural or made by Orcish hands. The tongues of prayer flags and shaman's poles shake in the wind. She wants to explore more, but Lady Liadrin beckons her to sit by the edge.

"How did you find this place?"

"I got bored with all those Horde Council meetings," says Liadrin

"Well, your Regent Lord likes to ask a lot of questions."

"Especially about Sylvanas." Then Liadrin adds: "You were good in there."

"Thank you."

"But arguing against the Horde and Alliance combined?"

"It's been five years, Liadrin."

"Sylvanas's defiance will last much longer."

Thalyssra sighs. "She's – getting there. I just don't know why no one believes me."

"Because you're hiding in Suramar all the time."

"Liadrin–"

"Shh don't argue. Just enjoy the view, First Arc – Thalyssra."

The strong winds press against her face, pulling her hair horizontally. She observes the sprawled mess that's the Horde's capital city. Sliding chains of Orc traffic hustle through the canyons. The thrum of a nearby foundry sounds like the massive bellows of animal's lungs. A thousand houses, a thousand ribbons of smoke.

"Orgrimmar is–" Thalyssra can't find the words.

"Beautiful? Mad? Crowded? Not Suramar?"

"Yes."

"You need to spend more time here with us."

"Are you bored of Ly'leth already?"

" _Speaker of the Horde_ Ly'leth Lunastre, you mean," Liadrin says. "If these were the old days, she'd be our Warchief."

"She's always been good with people."

"She has the Alliance eating out of her hand."

"Better her hand than mine."

"Speaking of eating–"

Liadrin removes something from her armour and sets it down between them. When Thalyssra examines it, she realises it's several medallions of preserved meat in a hastily-wrapped package.

"Might be nice paired with Arcwine?" Thalyssra says, trying to be polite.

"It's not for you. It's for your – guest in Suramar."

Surprise causes Thalyssra to reflexively squint at Liadrin. Thankfully, her comrade doesn't notice.

"Heard everything you said in that briefing," Liadrin tells her. "If what you say is true – that the tattoos are making her more mortal – then maybe, maybe–"

"Really? Preserved meat?"

"Orgrimmar's famous salted pork," Liadrin says. "When she was Warchief, she had it at all our official events. The Orcs loved her."

"I didn't know that."

"It was a long time ago."

"That's – thoughtful."

Thalyssra thinks there are a hundred ways this could go wrong. But Liadrin's the closest person she has to a friend here in Orgrimmar, and she doesn't dislike Sylvanas like many others.

"Not all of us hate her."

"I know."

"I hate the decisions she made," Liadrin says, her voice thinning to a whisper. "But not the person she was."

"I'll pass this to her. Let's see what she'll say."

Her hands sandy with grains of salt, Thalyssra returns to the view. No domes, no arches, no canals, no arabesques. No fog from the sea, no mana drifting from the heavens like wayward stars. No gardens, no vineyards. No Banshee Queen imprisoned behind its pretty exterior.

But beneath all that. Thalyssra thinks of the blood spilled in Suramar and Orgrimmar. Both cities victims of regime change, massacres and time.

In the distance, a zeppelin clears the mountains, a smudge on the horizon rising above escarpments of stone. Far away but just below, she hears the sound of children playing. This is a city at ease with itself, Thalyssra thinks.

"How did we find ourselves in this mess?" she says.

"We did what we thought was right."

"I hope so."

Then Liadrin's hands bridge the gap and take hold of hers. The touch shocks her: a blade of warmth buried between her fingers.

When the novelty of holding hands with the leader of the Blood Knights wears off, Thalyssra understands she hasn't touched – or been touched – by another other than Sylvanas for so long she's almost forgotten how warmth burns.

"Forget today. Forget Orgrimmar," Liadrin says. "Come back to Silvermoon with me for a day? Salandria's always asking about her favourite arcanist."

Thalyssra knows that if anyone else asked, she would reject them outright. But this is Lady Liadrin. They fought, bled and took back Suramar together. Liadrin helped her during those first unstable weeks when she took charge of the Nightborne. She was there when she needed advice on joining the Horde.

She looks at Liadrin, her eyes like twin dancing lagoons of shallow seawater. Everything about Liadrin, she thinks, is sharp – from the stare she gives, to the planes of her armour, making it look like her arms are bangled in moonlight.

"I'm sorry," she tells her. A lie. "I'm needed back in Suramar." A half-truth.

Liadrin shakes her head, smiling and sighing at the same time.

"Ah well," she says. "Was hoping you'd come so I could prove Ly'leth wrong."

"Wrong about?"

"You taking everything too seriously."

"I have – things to deal with."

Liadrin gets up, stretches. She extends a hand to Thalyssra. When she takes it, she finds herself in Liadrin's arms. She rings her arms around Thalyssra's taller frame, then withdraws to stare up to her eye-to-eye, warrior-to-warrior.

"Take all the time you want," Liadrin says. "But you're not alone on Azeroth with Sylvanas. All of us on the Horde council, we're all here for you."

* * *

After she makes social calls around Orgrimmar for advice, she returns to Suramar. She falls into a vault of syrupy scenery, then emerges back into reality with her ears popped. This is what Thalyssra feels when she commutes from Orgrimmar back to the Nighthold via telemancy pad.

She arrives into a city lit by scattered planes of sunlight emerging from behind the rags of clouds. Sunshine pools in the horseshoe arches of bridges, and the canals have become rivers of golden light. But for now, the city is quiet, with nothing but the blue-hued mountains in the distance.

She sends messages to the best arcane practitioners in Dalaran, seeking advice on easing Sylvanas's restrictions. Later, when she exits the Nighthold, she encounters the Forsaken shrine and its resident lady again. Scattered whispers fill her head. She closes her eyes and tries to make them go away.

"Aran'arcana," she says to her. "Are you the keeper of this shrine?"

"Yes, Arcanist."

"Please call me Thalyssra."

When she looks up, Thalyssra sees the fiery, backlit eyes of an Undead Sin'dorei mixed with the 'O' of recognition. From the arrowheads, to the ferret-jut of the lady's cheekbones, to her fraying, ragged hood, Thalyssra connects everything together.

"You're one of the Dark Lady's Rangers."

"Not for many years."

"And you live in Felsoul Hold?"

"There are few other places that welcome us."

There's something else, Thalyssra thinks. Wide swathes of discoloured skin swirl on the side of the bluish oval of her face. Most disturbing is the smell of arcane – a smell so harsh, like burning sulphur, seeping from her body. It overpowers the usual sourness of Undead body odour.

"You were imprisoned?" Thalyssra asks. "In an arcane vault?"

"The First Arcanist is observant."

For a brief moment, Thalyssra wants to reach down and comfort this strange monstrosity. It reminds her of the semi-self-aware Withered, wandering with no distinct purpose other than sustenance. Theryn and this Dark Ranger are in many ways alike: out-of-place, lost, with an entire history of neglect behind her.

So she lowers herself and takes the Dark Ranger's hand and presses it to her forehead. She feels the bony grove of one of her skeletal fingers, the tense arm almost trying to resist.

"Elu'meniel mal alann," Thalyssra says in her best Thalassian.

The Dark Ranger stares at her, unsure, her eyes darting down and back up again in rapid jumps.

"I – And to you, My Lady Thalyssra."

"May I ask your name?"

"Anya."

"Thank you."

"Could you please pass a message to the Dark Lady?"

"I'm afraid that's–"

"Tell her we are behind her. She is not forgotten or forsaken."

The Dark Ranger's arm trails back to indicate the shrine. To Thalyssra, her face doesn't appear to catch the generous sunlight spilling over the city.

Far out to sea, a storm smears itself on the horizon.

* * *

"This is something from Lady Liadrin," Thalyssra says. "A gift."

The storm makes landfall when Suramar is flooded with ashy moonlight. A dancing whirl of rain, then lightning strobes the hills beyond the city. When the storm blows itself out, tiny bright snowflakes of mana parachute down from the sky, mixed with rain. 

After settling official correspondence all evening, Thalyssra spends a few moments in the open, watching the bits of light. Half a decade on and still no one knows what causes this weird weather phenomenon in Suramar. It's like watching fragments of stars coast to the ground. In the gardens, Theryn absently tries to pick the flakes from the air.

She finds Sylvanas seated in a lotus position, on the same spot, by the beach. The Duskwatch guard observing her is soaked from the storm. Thalyssra dismisses her for the night.

She sets Liadrin's gift between them, a peace offering. The Dark Lady looks at it, prods it with one hand.

"So you've brought me grunt food from Orgrimmar?" she says. "Very – original."

"She said–"

"You don't need to like something to use it to flatter your biggest allies."

"Oh."

"It's called _politics_ , First Arcanist."

They sit in silence, with nothing but the shushing of the waves straining to climb the slope of the beach. Thalyssra feels something clench in her chest. It gets tighter when she replays the Banshee Queen's words – the lightly-thrown judgment, her grimace, the way she stabs the 'p' in "politics" into the conversation –

But then Slyvanas stretches out her hand and digs into the meat.

"Liadrin was always a good soldier," she says.

Just like that, the Dark Lady partakes of a post-storm snack.

Thalyssra sneaks one piece for herself. It tastes exactly as Sylvanas described it: plain, essential fuel for the armies of the Horde. Chunks get caught in between her teeth. Salt rashes her throat. She could do with some Arcwine.

She watches Sylvanas. The sea creams over her feet. Rain and flakes of mana land on her shoulders, gently lighting up the tattoos that splay over her shoulders so it looks like she's wearing a shawl. When draws a tongue over her salt-encrusted fingers, a fleshy slug over ashy skin.

Sylvanas takes the rest of the meat, and flings it into the ocean.

"How did it taste?" Thalyssra asks.

"Inedible."

"But you could taste something."

"Something yes," Sylvanas turns ever so slightly. "Interested in my tongue for a reason, First Arcanist?"

Thayssra ignores the question. Instead, she weighs the risks of telling Sylvanas her theories. But she sees her charge beside her, eyebrows spidery with rain. Sylvanas reminds her of a wet animal, stalking just out of range, afraid to let its true intentions show.

What's the worst that can happen? Another fit of screaming? Maybe emotional manipulation? It's the price of honesty, Thalyssra decides. So she tells her.

Sylvanas stays very still. Drops of spray cling to her skin like pearls.

"Interesting," Sylvanas finally says.

"It is."

"I've never known much about my condition even before your – markings."

"Neither did I."

Sylvanas holds up her hand. She inspects the twisting tracery of symbols, the symmetry on her other arm. She runs a finger along the serpentine whorl of arcane ink etched into her skin, following it under her cloak, down her breastbone, ending in her hip

All Thaylssra sees are the slender strings of muscles, the curve of her thighs. The ghostly collar around her throat glows. 

"I'm flattered to know I'm subject to so much interest," Sylvanas finally says. "So how are Azeroth's finest thinking of further humiliating me with this?"

"What? No, we're not–"

"More chains? More restrictions?"

"No. I vouched for you."

"Oh you're on my side now?"

"I would like to think so."

"Spare me, First Arcanist. I'm just an experiment to you. Like Theryn."

"Theryn is my friend."

"A friend who can't refuse you."

"Is everything about force to you, Sylvanas?"

"No one's ever given me a choice, First Arcanist."

Thalyssra doesn't respond. Because Sylvanas is right. She knows she, like many before her, is guilty of making decisions on Sylvanas's behalf.

And what was it that Sylvanas had thrown at her when she drew those tattoos all those years back?

"You put on a show of guilt when you're nothing but a traitor!"

But she knows this was the choice she had to take.

"We all suffer the consequences of our choices," Thalyssra says finally.

"Don't patronise me."

Sylvanas eyes her tattoos again.

"Although I suppose this presents an opportunity for me," she says. "There was always something I wanted to know–"

"What's that?"

Sylvanas turns to her and says, "Seduce me."

Thalyssra thinks she's misheard.

"Never had a lover before, First Arcanist?"

"No, I – but – why?"

"You've denied me my dark magic," she says. "Don't deny me my mortality."

"We talked about this. We talked about you trying to–"

Sylvanas tears the cloak she's wearing, bears the cadaver-pale ridges of her collarbone. Thalyssra knows there are multiple concentric circles there, around Sylvanas's cleavage, her–

"This is your handiwork," Sylvanas says. "This is your chance to find out if I really have a heart."

When Thalyssra doesn't move, Sylvanas gets to her feet. Thalyssra gathers the arcane energy in her hand, ready for anything.

But the Banshee Queen lowers herself, her lips parallel to Thalyssra's face. When she speaks, Thalyssra feels her breath like a flower, brushing her cheeks.

"I'll be waiting," she says, her voice a perfect mixture of both control and condescension.

The arcane energy stacking in her fingers dissolves. But Thalyssra recovers enough to speak back: "What are you playing at, Sylvanas?"

Sylvanas turns Thalyssra's face to meet her eyes, shadow-lit with desire.

"You," she says.

.

.

.

**_End Chapter 2_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like writing about complicated feelings & multiple perspectives. For example, that both Liadrin & Thalyssra have wildly different views on Sylvanas, and Liadrin has her own opinions on serving under the Dark Lady. Writing the dialogue in this chapter was a joy too!
> 
> Also headcanon: socialite Ly'leth Lunastre would make a great politician. 
> 
> Some questions:  
> 1\. How did you find my characterisation of Liadrin?  
> 2\. How do you think Thalyssra can be better portrayed?
> 
> If you've made it this far, thank you for reading!


	3. Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Longing, guilt and a broken promise: Thalyssra faces all three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I'm thankful for the feedback of my beta [wolfandwild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfandwild/pseuds/wolfandwild) who helped me immensely with this chapter. 
> 
> TW: for attempted self-harm.

_"You kiss me with the deliberateness of carefully pouring acid from one beaker to another―the slightest mistake and we could have a Situation."_  
\- **Dandelion Light** , Lessa Cross-Smith

* * *

* * *

**3.**

**Light**

.

.

.

"Theryn, I wanted to ask you something."

This time, Thalyssra sets up the meal of Arcan'dor fruit, herbs and Arcwine at her porch. She lays a sheet on the ground, and rests with her knees to her chest as Theryn curiously examines the new seating arrangements.

"Hm?"

"My question today is quite personal."

Theryn always goes for the Arcwine first. Thalyssra wonders if it's plain habit, or his former Nightborne consciousness reaching out for the drink that could've saved him. She watches him stretch the little knobs of his kneecaps to the ground as he drinks with her.

Behind him, birds roost on the trees like unopened buds. The clear sky reveals a cluster of stars in the pre-dawn sky, scattered across the heavens like salt on a tableau.

"Do you remember my friend Sylvanas Windrunner? The Banshee Queen?" Thalyssra asks.

"Friend?"

"Yes, she's my friend. She also asked me to seduce her."

"Hm."

"It's a strange request. And I'm wondering–"

"Hm."

"We spend a lot of time together. Not out of choice. Yet I never know when she's telling the truth."

Theryn slurps at the Arcwine, his tongue worming around the rim of his goblet to extract the last drops. When he's done, he carelessly flicks it away. With a swish of her fingers, Thalyssra conjures a tiny arcane force that pushes the goblet upright.

"I'm not sure what I should do, Theryn."

"Ugh."

"It's not that I love her," Thalyssra says. "I don't, I think– "

"Hm?"

"I accepted her in Suramar. Because every minute she spends here is another minute she spends alive, away from causing chaos."

"Hm."

"But–"

Thalyssra thinks how to phrase this last part. She watches Theryn fumble with the slices of Arcan'dor. He's eaten them a hundred times but still begins by sniffing at the crescent-shaped cuts. When he bites, he savours the pulp and lets rivulets of juice fall down his chin. He gives a squeal of satisfaction.

"I just want her to be happy," Thalyssra finally says, sipping her own glass of Arcwine. "She deserves some happiness– "

_After what I've done to her,_ is what she doesn't say out loud _._

"I just wish she would be honest with me – to stop playing all these mind games."

"Hm?"

"I don't know, Theryn."

"Ugh."

"I mean, how much would you sacrifice for another?" Thalyssra asks. "Would you have given your last sip of Arcwine to your children and become Withered if it meant saving them from that fate?"

Thalyssra watches Theryn finish the last of the Arcan'dor. He runs a finger on the plate, scooping up any fragments. He looks back at the gardens, distracted by something moving in the trees.

"You don't know the answer, do you Theryn?" she says. "You don't even know who you are."

Thalyssra sighs. Theryn gnaws contentedly on something he's found in his mouth.

"Thank you for listening to me, Theryn."

Thalyssra gathers the plates, finishes her Arcwine. She picks the far corners of the sheet when she brushes up against Theryn's hand. The Withered creature turns to her, looks her in the eyes and says:

"Forge your own destiny."

Thalyssra drops the sheet.

And: "The Nightborne will survive regardless."

She nearly backs into the plates. But when she recovers, Theryn has already turned aside. He picks at the edge of the sheet and tugs it over himself like a blanket.

"Theryn?"

"Eh?"

"Do you remember who you are?"

"Hm?"

Thalyssra doesn't understand. She watches Theryn again, waiting for something – anything – any brief flash of lucidity from her Withered friend. She watches him even as dawn arrives and he appears to doze off with the picnic sheet as a blanket.

"Sleep well, Theryn," she says, finally. "You're a good friend."

Theryn stirs, points at the direction of her heart and says, "Friend."

* * *

"I've read your letters and saw a copy of the report you presented to the Advisory Committee about Sylvanas–"

"Yes?"

"And I wanted to talk to you myself."

Thalyssra's at the Nighthold when the Telemancer-on-duty notifies her that someone's opening a portal directly into the building. Even before he leaves, she catches the sulphurous odour of pure arcane, then the fizz of a portal being burnt into an enclosed space. Sparks and light lap at the ceiling, the portal yawns and Jaina Proudmoore steps out.

"Lord Admiral," Thalyssra says, standing. "Welcome to Suramar once again."

Jaina crosses over to her and circles her wrist with a hand. It's a friendly, intimate gesture, and the warmth of that touch snakes up Thalyssra's arm.

"You don't need to be so formal, Thalyssra," Jaina says.

She doesn't, but Jaina is Jaina, and Thalyssra feels there are few professional opinions she counts as dear as this archmage's, standing with her in this overly-ceremonial room in the Nighthold.

Thalyssra requests for refreshments, and brings her colleague out for a walk. Like with many official guests, Thalyssra politely postpones the meat of the conversation for later. Instead, she escorts Jaina through the Nighthold's gardens. She asks about Dalaran and Boralus, and then about the developments in arcane magic.

She brings Jaina to a different spot in Suramar each time she visits. This time, they stop at a quiet pier ringed by an avenue of trees. Boats shuffle in-and-out from a canal near its entrance. The Nightborne there greet them. An attendant has prepared some drinks and snacks by table.

As Thalyssra serves Jaina, the archmage launches straight into the question of Sylvanas.

"The Alliance is wary of your desire to reduce Sylvanas's restrictions," Jaina says.

"I imagine so."

"Remember, all those years ago?" Jaina tells her, twirling her staff. "You insisted on all those arcane restrictions, on top of the Nightborne tattoos."

"I insisted because I wanted to keep Suramar safe."

"You have." Jaina nods out over the pier, and with her staff points out over the entire eastern flank of the city, running parallel to the incoming blades of waves. "I've never seen Suramar from this point before."

"Why do you think I've brought you here?"

Jaina smiles, generously. Thalyssra thinks the minor inconvenience of scouting her city for new spots to bring visitors is worth the trouble if she could make the Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras smile more.

"But Sylvanas will always be Sylvanas," Jaina says.

"Yes she will."

"I don't trust her."

"I understand."

"Do you?"

"I believe she's changed," Thalyssra faces the question head on. She looks out over the city, trying to find the right words to describe what she feels. "She's not a risk to Suramar or the Nightborne. At least not that I believe."

"You never fought her, Thalyssra. You don't know how ruthless she can be."

"I feel she's only a risk to herself."

"And you believe her?"

"I do."

Jaina's still looking out over the sea. Thalyssra only sees one-half of her face: eyes narrowed into a frown, lips curled upwards. It's a look of unfiltered resentment. So she isn't surprised at what Jaina says next.

"I don't trust her at all." She speaks to the sea. Thalyssra feels as if by not seeing Jaina's lips move she's being spared the gale-force of her rejection: "And as the one who designed her collar, I can't agree to remove it."

Thalyssra sighs. She expected this. Sylvanas had wounded many people, especially Jaina.

"She's done so many terrible things–"

"She has."

"Hurt so many people, even her own–"

"Jaina–"

"What she's done without consent–"

"Jaina!"

Thalyssra seizes the archmage by her shoulders, turns to look at her face-to-face. Her outburst evaporates into surprise, then into embarrassment. The Nightborne around them stare. The attendant clears his throat, and deftly collects all the food save the drinks.

On the far tip of the peninsula, at the Nighthold, a trough of fog moves shoreward.

She lets go of Jaina, who backs away. She's breathing deeply, as if cooling the fire of her outburst. She doesn't meet Thalyssra's eyes.

On the slope where her shoulders meet her neck, Thalyssra sees the delicate cross-thatch of tanned skin – the remnants of sunburnt or the flush of discomfort at their close contact. Or both.

"Five years," Thalyssra says. "It's been five years since we – punished her."

"Has it?"

"Enough time for forgiveness."

Jaina jerks her head to confront her stare.

"Please tell me you're not in – that you don't have feelings for her," she says.

Thalyssra doesn't blink, or respond to that hint of accusation in the question. She delays a moment, but answers fast enough, hoping to make it seem to Jaina she's being honest.

"I don't think so."

Jaina sighs, returns to her perch overlooking the Suramar coastline. A whip of cold wind makes the trees above them weep shade onto the pier. In the moving splotches of shadow, Thalyssra sees that Jaina's eyes are faintly glowing. She isn't sure if she's brewing something arcane with her anger at Sylvanas, or if she's trying to keep her feelings under control.

"She has a way with people," Jaina finally says. "She knows how to manipulate them."

"I know. She's a master at it.

"Not to mention her ability to get into people's heads."

"With voices yes."

Jaina squints, as if she's just heard something strange. "Now that's new. But it still proves my point."

"I only do what I think makes her more human than banshee."

"That's the problem," Jaina says. Then, her voice dips into a low, almost-critical detachment. "I've always felt that during the tattooing, you sort of – became closer to with that – war criminal – "

Thalyssra shuts her eyes.

"I'm sorry, Thalyssra. I don't mean to say–"

She knows exactly what Jaina's referring to. In the misty whorl of her memory, she remembers the scene: the archmages, Sylvanas locked tightly in place, and the Banshee Queen's hand, trembling. And Thalyssra's own voice, asking everyone to leave because she needed to complete the tattoos. On Slyvanas's abdomen.

Everyone obeyed except Jaina, the fourth archmage present – 

Jaina, who throughout the tattooing process held her staff at Sylvanas's neck –

Thalyssra can even dredge up from the pits of her memory the words they exchanged. She recalls her escalating demands that Jaina _please_ leave, and the repeated refusals – the one and only time she and Jaina had an argument in all their years of knowing each other.

In her seat, Sylvanas wouldn't stop shaking.

At last, Thalyssra appealed: "This is a deep wound. A private pain. Give us a moment, Jaina. Please."

When Jaina finally left, Thalyssra undid the robes to carve the tattoo on Sylvanas's abdomen, where the deepest of her wounds were.

On that same day, Sylvanas extracted the promise from her.

On that same day, Thalyssra felt something. An unlikely connection perhaps. She and Sylvanas. Two leaders. Two individuals weighed down by consequence. Two who lost everything trying to do what they thought was right.

Only Thalyssra would be the one keeping Sylvanas down.

Thalyssra doesn't admit these uneasy thoughts to Jaina. All she says is, "No you're right. She was and is a war criminal."

Jaina sighs, so strongly that it seems to deflate her. But her attention is elsewhere, out at the sea.

"Is there always so much fog in Suramar this time of the year?" she asks.

Thalyssra stands at the pier, watching the fog extinguish building by building from sight as it advances towards them. The wind makes the surface of the canals grooved with waves, and the chill knifes at her through her robes. Clouds hang in pregnant, overlapping folds, some outlined by sunlight.

"Only in the evenings."

"It's better than Boralus with its storms."

At the mention of Jaina's island hometown, Thalyssra gently asks, "How are you feeling after – after what happened with your mother?"

Thayssra observes Jaina as she tracks the fog saturating the coastal city. She's unfazed by the scythe of landward, colder wind. When clouds briefly dilute the sunshine, Thalyssra sees the glowing embers of arcane in her eyes have faded, and the watery, thundercloud grey of those eyes have become an open cauldron of a thousand-yard stare.

She thinks – no, she feels – Jaina's enduring exhaustion in her stillness: the long years of endless war, the cautious aftermath of peace, and then deep dive down the abyss of politics and problem-solving.

Thalyssra is reminded of hardness – like a stubborn boulder on the shore refusing to be dislodged, like a scar scabbing over and over again. Everything about Jaina has the expressive-ness of a wound: the compact way she shifts her body as if anticipating an punch instead of a embrace, the angular bony planes of her cheeks, the smudges of black permanently nestled under her eyes, her corona of all-white hair retreating from her scalp with its diminishing flecks of gold –

Thalyssra understands they're alike. After what they've both been through, they're both walking emblems of grief and longing – longing for better days.

"Stay the night in Suramar," Thalyssra says. She puts a hand on her arm. "You deserve some time away from Stormwind and Boralus."

"My mother needs–"

"I will send our physicians. You can brief them before they leave."

Jaina doesn't agree or protest. Instead, Thalyssra feels her curl her ropey arm around her bicep. Without another word, she leads Jaina back to the Nighthold.

When the rushing fog clouds the streets of Suramar in curtains of steel-grey, Thalyssra feels her guest lean into her. The press of Jaina's angular shoulder on her arm reminds her that they have to keep moving forward. No matter what.  
  


* * *

Nightfall arrives after the fog, and after the nightfall comes the inevitable storm. When it does, the rain turns Suramar and its surroundings into shades of purpled and blued watercolours. Its lights shine as dollops of pearl in the watery dark.

Thalyssra sees the city and thinks about all the Nightborne have achieved: integration, being strong enough to lead the Horde and generous enough to offer safe haven for the Forsaken, among many other things. She wonders if Suramar would've been like this if not for the sacrifices of the many Nightfallen and Withered, of Valtrois and Oculeth, of herself.

She watches the sky explode with an inverted tree of lightning. Before the storm, overlooking the city, she decides what she needs to do.

Still, she walks. She walks through the streets in the direction of home. Arcane globes of light warp and blink her way home as the downpour quietens into a drizzle.

But when Thalyssra reaches the shore, Sylvanas isn't there.

She looks out at the heavy, apricot-coloured moon dangling over the horizon. The waves hush as they retreat back into the vast blank mass of the ocean.

The blunt shock of being rejected hits her in the chest when she sees the empty beach.

The barest hiss of whispers in her ears alerts her in the direction of her home. In the gardens, dewy with the aftermath of the rain, the murmuring directs her back to the porch of her home. There, Sylvanas sits, almost in the same place where Thalyssra had sat with Theryn days prior.

"You're late, First Arcanist."

Thalyssra tells the Duskwatch sentries hovering around the gardens to leave.

In her lotus position, Sylvanas watches. Her lopsided, predatory smile is asymmetrically shrouded by shadow. She waits, her ashen skin luminous in a pond of moonlight. 

"You were not at the beach."

"Why should I be?" Sylvanas says.

"You always are."

"Think of this as making your life exciting with my unpredictability."

Thalyssra stops at the entrance to the porch. Her clothes are shaggy and heavy with rain. Sylvanas, for once dry and smug, reaches out with an arm. Thalyssra pulls her to her feet.

When Thalyssra invites her in, Sylvanas swipes away a long glowing chain of rainwater hanging from her chin. Then she looks straight at her, her gaze powerful, unflinching.

"Is this what you really want?" Thalyssra asks.

"I should be asking you that question–"

"Sylvanas–"

"Or are you the one afraid of getting rejected?"

As she speaks, she hooks her arms around Thalyssra's neck. Thalyssra feels her finger, a cold little worm tracing the most visible of her tattoos: the faded arcs on the curve of her shoulder. 

"Kiss me," says Sylvanas.

She says it like an order, not a request.

Thalyssra hesitates. She faces her ex-Warchief, her prisoner, her 'guest' in Suramar, the most hated person in Azeroth. At the same time, she feels a small swell of guilt: war criminal or not, she carved up her body into tattoos against her will. All these emotions, Thalyssra thinks, make this the opposite of romantic.

Yet she's poised above Sylvanas, and she dips her head to gently brush her lips against hers.

The Dark Lady doesn't hold back. She slaps a hard kiss on Thalyssra's lips. Her tongue feels like a hard, minty worm. She breathes the crushing, incense-like musk of being in close proximity with someone in Undeath.

Thalyssra sees her companion's tattoos light up, a chain of cursive arcane tentacles across Sylvanas's neck. They brighten until they both have to break away to breathe, Thalyssra's own breath fogging the moonlight.

"You taste," Sylvanas cleans her lips with her tongue, flashes her longer canines. "Sweet."

"It must be the Arcwine–"

"Don't talk. Kiss me again."

Thalyssra moves, but Sylvanas backs her into a wall. When she reaches out for purchase, she finds only the broad loom of the Dark Lady's shoulders. A feral smile splits Sylvanas's face. She shrugs her robes open till they part to reveal a cascade of pale flesh stretching from her chest, to the triangle of muscle at her abdomen, down to the delta at her crotch.

This when Thalyssra sees it: the dark violent star-burst of Frostmourne's scar.

"I know why you're so fascinated by it," the Banshee Queen says, catching her looking.

"Tell me then."

One hand seizes Thalyssra's hand and splays it into an open palm. With a deliberate slowness, Sylvanas runs Thalyssra's captive hand from the hollow bowl at her sternum and south to the scar. Thalyssra feels the rough folds of scar tissue blooming from the wound like a pressed flower. As Sylvanas guides her hand, the tattoos emanating from the scar – tattoos that she drew – emit an unearthly glow.

"Because it's the site of your greatest work," Sylvanas says.

By the time she frees her, Thalyssra knows she's cornered. Sylvanas narrows all the space between them, and she can feel the Dark Lady's body on hers, a vice of cold flesh. Sylvanas's cloak lies bunched around her waist, her body unsheathed. When she squirms against her, Thalyssra sees the entire universe of tattoos writhing in tandem.

Then, the collar.

When Thalyssra touches it, it activates both the arcane inscriptions around it and her own tattoos.

She could end it now. Thumb her own energy into the collar. A word would trigger the enchantment. Exert her control.

Sylvanas's is in the process of dashing her teeth across the nape of the neck when she notices. Two fingers take Thalyssra's chin and direct her attention to her eyes, stained with the ghosts of her tears.

"Do it."

"What for?"

"Perhaps you like me on my knees instead of like this."

"No."

"Then maybe if it explodes, I can hold you to our promise."

Thalyssra considers this. Instead she closes her eyes, tries to take in the sensation of Sylvanas's cold slug of a hand twining around her waist to reach –

No. Thalyssra shoves her aside. She can't do this. Not when both this messy morass of longing and guilt keep building inside her.

Not when she's reminded of her part in imprisoning Slyvanas in her own skin –

"I disgust you, First Arcanist?"

"No. It's just–"

"Just what?"

"This is not what you want from me."

"What if I do?"

"Then – then maybe I don't want it."

Sylvanas pauses. Her robes are flooded around her waist. Her head tilts as if regarding some kind of epiphany. "You're afraid, aren't you? Of what you said to me."

Sylvanas's eyes are two burning, roiling chasms in the dark.

"Yes I am," Thalyssra says.

Now, in the humid darkness of her own home, Sylvanas stares at her, the admission of her fear makes something come down between them. A soft light, gradually brightening, strobes from the tattoos against her discoloured skin.

"Good. At least you'll understand."

"Understand?"

"The loss I live with every day," she tells Thalyssra. "And what will never be. A knife hanging over my head. And yours."

"Then why me?"

"Because I understand you," she says. "Because you're the only one who feels guilty about me."

Thalyssra's heard enough – enough of this manipulation and guilt-tripping. She turns to go, to leave Sylvanas half-clothed in the outer chamber of her own home.

" _Thalyssra!_ " she hears Sylvanas's voice dive deep into its banshee tone. "Don't turn your back–"

Everything happens fast. The whispers in her ears accelerate until they begin to scream. A blast of light whitens the edges of Thalyssra's vision. When she looks back, the arcane energy from Sylvanas's collar explodes.

In a split second she sees Sylvanas in a whirlpool of shadows all erupting in fire.

Thalyssra hurls all her own arcane energy at the collar and at the tattoos. Cancel the arcane energy – no, reverse it into the tattoos – before the collar beheads Sylvanas. Or worse –

The fire whirlpools into a mass of arcane energy. And Thalyssra sees Sylvanas, in the centre of the vortex, her tattoos all alight, draining the energy downwards, into the ground.

For a split second, Thalyssra sees all the leylines underground blossom, then –

A blast of wind body-slams Thalyssra backwards. The extravagant light dies. In its place, Thalyssra sees a body crumpled in a small crater. Shadows flee. A diminishing wave of light streams down the tattooed symbols and tendrils, into the blackened soles of Sylvanas's feet, making her body sparkle.

There's nothing in the air but the scent of charred flesh.

She's with Sylvanas on the ground. She conjures healing wards, animates the air around her to chill the burning sores bubbling along her exposed scars. The tattoos worked. Even against the magic of the collar. All she can do now is redirect the energy flow around it, now a blackened ring still humming. It has seared a noose of ulcers onto Slyvanas's neck.

Sylvanas tries to get up. Thalyssra pulls her to her chest.

"Why? Why did you do it?"

"It was – wasn't on purpose." She lays a palm, freckled with mana burns onto Thalyssra's arm. "Got carried away–"

"You're reckless, and stupid."

"It worked – I wanted to see if – if you'd break your promise."

Now, especially now, confronted with the effects of it, she remembers the promise. This was after the archmages had left, after she'd convinced Jaina Proudmoore to leave.

She remembers delicately undoing the Banshee Queen's armour, dismantling the chain mail over her stomach. In another life, perhaps a lover might have done this for Sylvanas, with hands twitching and uncertain as hers. But she remembers seeing the scar for the first time, and its furious abyss of undead, decayed flesh–

As she drew the continuous loop of symbols and runes with her pen, she realised with clarity what she was doing. She had committed the same thing that the Lich King Arthas and others had done to Sylvanas: marking, violating her body without her consent.

With her limbs dead with shackles and all hope of rescue gone, Sylvanas looked her in the eye as she crafted the prison that would be etched into her skin. Her breathing came hoarse and erratic, and her voice wilting in shame, faraway:

"Promise me that you won't deny me when the time comes."

"Deny you?"

As if on cue, her half-coloured tattoos started to warp into life, as she struggled to speak with her dark banshee voice.

"Promise that if this experiment works – you'll let me go. Don't – deny – me."

And Thalyssra, already obligated to her plan, feeling the sick stab of guilt radiating upwards from her chest, knew she would take her prisoner's hand and say, "Yes, I promise."

Now, in the mess of her gardens, scorch marks all around them, the arcane energy from Thalyssra's fingers dies. Tiny trails of smoke corkscrew from Sylvanas's body.

She doesn't know if the collar is still active. Jaina will need to examine it. But for now Sylvanas lies back, closes her eyes. Her palm falls into Thalyssra's, and she holds it tight, the pads of singed fingers against hers.

As she fits her fingers into the slots of Sylvanas's palms, their tattoos align. And for once, after all that has happened, Slyvanas's touch is warm.

.

.

.

**_End Chapter 3_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a difficult chapter to write.
> 
> If you have any comments, I would love to hear them! Specifically, I would like feedback on:  
> 1\. The in-story portrayal of Jaina Proudmoore  
> 2\. The relationship (or lack of) between Thalyssra & Slyvanas
> 
> The last chapter will be a shorter one to wrap things up.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. Clear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvanas's face is taut with desire. Whether to jump to see her people or trust her – Thalyssra won't know. So she offers her hand. 
> 
> In turn, she's surprised when the Banshee Queen accepts. With her palm in the slats of Sylvanas's fingers, she guides her through the portal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Wolfandwild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfandwild/pseuds/wolfandwild) did the hard work of beta-ing this chapter & the entire story for me. Doing this wouldn't be possible without her help!

_“I will not have you without the darkness that hides within you. I will not let you have me without the madness that makes me. If our demons cannot dance, neither can we.”_   
\- Nikita Gill

* * *

* * *

**4.**

**Clear**

.

.

.

"So that was quite a performance," Liadrin says.

"Were they angry?"

"They're always angry. At each other. At Sylvanas."

Thalyssra sighs. "Getting two warring sides to actually agree on the fate of someone they both hate in equal measure isn't a good idea after all."

"It isn't," Liadrin says. "Now let me help dig you out of this hole you've dug for yourself."

The hole becomes obvious when Thalyssra tells the combined Horde and Alliance Committee about what happened with Sylvanas. Then, she observes the expected outburst.

Some label it an attempted escape. Others believe the experiment has come to an end, and call for the Banshee Queen to be put down once for all. Still a few more tell Thalyssra her taking Sylvanas's side has proved her folly.

She faces them down, alone. The rapid-fire questions, the back-and-forth accusation between Horde and Alliance – the relentless playacting of politics. She tells them what they need to know, and endures their response because she's responsible for Sylvanas. Because she's made mistakes.

For someone as experienced as her, mixing her roles as a leader of the Nightborne, a warden responsible for the Dark Lady and a friend is probably one of them.

But as she looks at the arguments she's instigated among the leaders, she thinks she knows what the problem is: in the absence of a factional war, Sylvanas is just a convenient scapegoat for everything wrong in Azeroth.

Problem is, she was guilty of the believing exact same thing.

"Thank you, First Arcanist, for your opinions," says King Anduin. "But we are concerned if you're still the best person to make judgments on the Dark Lady's welfare."

"The Dark Lady is my guest in Suramar," she says. "All this incident has proved is that the necessary safeguards are in place."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"The plan to ground Sylvanas's necromantic powers worked."

"But she tried to escape."

"I didn't say that."

"All right. But she clearly activated the collar then?"

"Yes. Were it not for the tattoos and my intervention, the collar would've killed her instantly."

"Wait. Are you saying you saved Sylvanas?"

Thalyssra sighs. She recovers, only to stare down several of the Alliance and Horde leaders. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because she doesn't deserve to die."

"This assembly will be the judge of that," someone corrects her.

It could be the High Priestess, the gravelly-speaking King of Gilneas, maybe even her old friend the Regent-Lord of Silvermoon. She doesn't really know.

The entire group flares into pockets of whispers and discussions. Both Horde and Alliance look equally flustered. She roughly knows what will come next: the tired, repetitive choreography of trading blame and each side attempting to claim the moral high ground.

She almost tells them, "Whether Sylvanas Windrunner lives or dies is inconsequential to the welfare of your peoples."

Instead, she stares at the architecture of the room in Stormwind Keep. She knows the history, the sacking of the capital and its rebuilding. Every stone is a victim. And everything beyond this room has seen nothing but endless conflict – from the sun-browned visage of this squat castle to the hard-angled courtyards trembling in the heat, and the sombre hover of non-combatants in the square below.

"My dear leaders," she says.

Only several of them pull away from the sticky political residue of their arguments to hear her.

"Your factionalism will outlive Sylvanas. Your conflicts will continue to burn Azeroth until the place we're standing on breaks into the sea."

She sees Liadrin from the corner of her eye, her face sharpened with a smile. She already knows they'll be talking after this show of hers.

"I prefer to give peace a chance," she says. "And Sylvanas as well."

"Spoken like someone who hid in Suramar for ten thousand years," a voice says, scathing, cutting like a blade.

But Thalyssra recovers faster than she expects. "Sylvanas is as much part of Suramar as I am now. So, I will work with whoever wants to work with me. But I'm not an executioner. Hardly a jailer even. My preference is to keep Sylvanas alive. Thank you."

When she gets up to leave, the room's still flooded with silence. King Anduin's mouth, swelling in preparation for a retort, is the last thing she sees before she leaves the room. 

She goes to the highest point accessible in the city to think. Later, Liadrin finds her without difficulty.

"So – I don't think you tracked me down all over Stormwind City to talk about how I just committed political suicide."

"You need help. I'll help you," Liadrin says. "Tell me what you need."

"What about your Regent-Lord?"

Liadrin's face narrows into a terrace of frowns. "He'll know what he needs to know."

"I don't want to get you in trouble."

"Thalyssra, you just walked out of a combined Horde-Alliance meeting and you're worried about me."

"I see your point."

"So what's your plan for Sylvanas?"

She tells her as they sit on a tower overlooking Stormwind Harbour, the keep rising behind them with its turrets and spires mingling with the sky. Thalyssra thinks that Stormwind City could be a twin of Suramar: its coast is fuzzy with ships coming and going, and the ocean is a scattered carpet of diamonds in the sun. She just doesn't like the heat, sitting on her shoulders like a yoke.

Liadrin brushes aside a sweaty lock from her forehead, her hair forming a craggy red boundary around her face. Thalyssra notices she always does this when she's thinking.

"You think it'll work?" Liadrin asks.

"For Sylvanas's sake, I hope it does."

"Well good thing you didn't tell them. The Alliance would've rejected it outright."

"I see Sylvanas differently."

"Of course, we can put it into motion. But– "

"But."

"Yes, but." Liadrin's fingers move from her hair to polish her chin. "We need someone who can back us up, preferably someone Alliance."

"Alliance?"

"Think about it this way," Liadrin says. "You're doing something different. You've always walked the line between Horde and Alliance. But this time you're openly going against them both. You need your friends from both sides to give you legitimacy."

Thalyssra thinks about this. It's been so long since she had to think about the optics and broader implications of her decisions. Perhaps being unimpressed by sectarian divisions is a sign she's been sequestered in Suramar for too long.

"Get someone from the Alliance," Liadrin repeats her advice. "Then you can say you have support from across the factions."

At once, Thalyssra's reminded of another dear friend, admiring the view of Suramar: Jaina Proudmoore. In the puzzle sequence that's her future plans, she begins to see some patterns.

Yes, she will go to Boralus, call on Katherine Proudmoore and talk to Jaina. Maybe they'll be able to agree on some things about Sylvanas.

"Thalyssra? You've sacrificed a lot for Sylvanas here," Liadrin wears her frown again. She gazes into Thalyssra, the edges of her edges so narrow Thalyssra thinks they shred her and scrape out her true intentions. "Is she worth it?"

A fish-scented sea breeze teases Liadrin's locks into the wind. Thalyssra lifts her hood, lets the wind run its hands through her hair. 

As she stares past Liadrin to the urban sprawl of Stormwind City, she almost imagines the Nighthold in the distance, grey in foggy distance. This feeling of seeing vague, repeated similarities in things that are vastly different haunts her right now. She can't help but wonder if all her efforts are just repetitive shades of grey on the same dull palette of conflict.

Like saving someone, only to wreck their future. Like giving Sylvanas her tattoos, only to make both of them pawns in the grand game of Horde versus Alliance.

No, this time things will be different, she decides.

Right? 

* * *

Before her death, Valtrois once told Thalyssra no matter what the Nightborne did in the brave new world beyond Suramar, they would always be judged on their ten millennia as isolationists in their Nightwell-powered shield.

"Remember what the High Priestess said during the rebellion?" Valtrois had said. "We were dying in the woods and the first thing she does is accuse you of trying to become Azshara."

"I don't blame her for it."

"Well, I do. You're just too nice, Thalyssra."

"It's our burden. We hid, but we can't hide anymore. So now we contribute to the world we rejected."

That had always been her perspective, her own way of righting the wrongs the Nightborne committed years ago. Valtrois accepted it, even if she disagreed.

"You and your guilt."

"For a race as proud as ours, that guilt might drive us to look out for others in Azeroth."

Valtrois said, "I'll wear our past as badge of honour. Because it means that no matter the odds, the Nightborne have always survived and done well– "

"Don't forget: we had help."

"–With the help of some choice outlanders."

"Friends."

"Okay. _Friends_. Still: Quel'vala thonos. Nobility through tradition. We're still Nightborne."

Thalyssra doesn't know why she's replaying this conversation so clearly now, while waiting in the Nighthold for her friends. Even on her best days, the halls of Suramar's state residence are filled with the ghosts of conversations long gone. It reminds her how much she misses Valtrois.

Almost on cue, Thalyssra feels a slight disturbance in the air. The cackling flower of a portal opens before her, and she sees Jaina Proudmoore and her Kul Tiran escorts bloom into life in the Nighthold. Across her, the Telemancer-on-duty ushers Liadrin and a retinue of her Blood Knights out to the hall.

She surveys them: her friends who responded to her request for help.

"Thank you for coming."

Liadrin nods. Jaina gives her a weary smile.

"Everything ready?" she asks.

Thalyssra's given orders to the Duskwatch. The Telemancer-on-duty knows his part to play. Even Anya, the ex-Dark Ranger, has been activated. The only unknown in all of this is Sylvanas herself. 

"Yes. Let's go."

As they leave, Liadrin cuts straight towards Jaina. When Jaina draws back, Liadrin stabs a finger in the area around her chest.

"Let me be clear," she says. "I don't have to like you to work with you."

"You're clear enough."

"I'm only giving you the benefit of the doubt because we're both Thalyssra's friends. Understood?"

Jaina shrugs. "Glad we can all be adults."

For the rest of the day, both Liadrin and Jaina hover around each other's shoulders, a loose wall of reassurance that Thalyssra's content to have.

The Duskwatch tells her Sylvanas is at the range on Suramar's outskirts. When they reach the training grounds, Sylvanas and her guards are betting on who can hit the most targets. Like before, she's winning, and is amassing canteens of Arcwine and Arcan'dor rations. 

Thalyssra and her companions wait. Sylvanas is zeroing in and has nocked an arrow at the target. When Thalyssra notices her eyes wandering up to meet hers, her bow descends. Sylvanas's head dips to the right. The arrow fires. It still hits the target.

Sylvanas stares at them. Smoke quills from her fingers, and the arcane bow has mapped tattoos into her triceps like bright, overloaded veins. When she walks to them, Thalyssra braces herself.

But she moves with a delicate limp. The collar at her throat appears like a lump of blackened skin. Beneath two black leaking smudges of eyes, she's tucked a slice of her bottom lip into her mouth, as if she's thinking hard what to say. The hard line of her calves, extending from instep to the back of her knees, are wrapped with burns.

Sylvanas faces them down.

Liadrin breaks the silence. "It's been a long time, Sylvanas."

"Lady Liadrin. I see you're here to check if I'm alive after the garbage you gave me."

"I always wondered if you miss Orgrimmar."

"Miss that cesspool? Really? No. How fares Silvermoon?" Sylvanas asks.

"Not as good as Suramar."

"Well, Suramar has the best window dressing for a prison in Azeroth."

"And you're a model prisoner."

Sylvanas glances down at the uniform the Duskwatch sentries gave her, with its stiff purple trousers and tapered jerkin. Thalyssra prefers this look. It shows off the ropey tattoos – and muscles – on Sylvanas's arms.

She interrupts them, "There are some more people who want to see you."

"Oh. More? This is a treat."

"Yes."

"I'm not a zoo exhibit to gawked at, Thal – First Arcanist."

"They're Forsaken."

Sylvanas blinks, once, twice, at her, ears perking. Thalyssra detects something in Sylvanas' face, constant arch of a snarl she wears slipping into something gentler.

"We're here to escort you there," Liadrin says. "Shall we?"

The wariness of her movements shows her disbelief. But Thalyssra holds out her hand. Sylvanas eyes it, tracing it all the way to Thalyssra's face. Then she smacks it away, and follows Liadrin–

Only to come face-to-face with Jaina.

She glares the archmage, whose eyes, sharpened by a line of ink, look like they will swallow the Dark Lady whole. Jaina has her staff pointed straight at Sylvanas's chest. As water droplets begin to assemble into ice in her hand, Sylvanas's tattoos start to intensify.

Thalyssra steps between them, facing Sylvanas.

"Please, ladies," she says.

The Dark Lady closes her eyes. The arcane energy dancing on her tattoos dissipates.

In turn, Jaina mutters something. And the collar yawns, unhinged, drops to the ground in a clunk of ash.

Sylvanas's fingers go to her throat, where the accident with the collar has branded a golden-brown choker of boils at her neck.

"No point heading into a portal with a damaged collar," Jaina says. She purposefully directs her voice to the side of Sylvanas's face. "Don't know how it will react."

"Thank you," Thalyssra says, and she leads them to the telemancy pad that she's set up.

Their escorts step into the swirling window of the teleportation portal. Liadrin follows. When it's Sylvanas's turn, she stops. As Thalyssra expects, Sylvanas glances into the miniature version of her destination, and rounds up on her.

"Is that – the Undercity?" she asks.

"No. It's Suramar."

"Then why are there Forsaken? So many of them?"

"You should ask them yourself."

Sylvanas doesn't move. Without her usual ranger's hood, her pale silver hair spills like a curtain, shut around her ears. It falls down to the delicate hooks of her collarbones, its ends drinking the sweat at her throat.

"No tricks, Sylvanas," Thalyssra says.

"And you think I believe you?"

"I promise."

Sylvanas's face is taut with desire. Whether to jump to see her people or trust her – Thalyssra won't know. So she offers her hand.

In turn, she's surprised when the Banshee Queen accepts. With her palm in the slats of Sylvanas's fingers, she guides her through the portal.

The world collapses. She nearly loses hold of Sylvanas's hand. But then they're in Felsoul Hold, a sloping plateau with crooked boulders leaning towards the sea.

The moment she's out of the telemancy pad Sylvanas is surrounded by the Forsaken. They swamp her, hands outstretched, as if to touch their queen would mean their salvation. In the midst of mass of crying, praying Forsaken, Sylvanas stands, eyes glassed with shock.

Then, Sylvanas sees Anya. She cups the face of her former Dark Ranger and embraces her. 

Thalyssra backs away. She chooses to stand at the sidelines with the Duskwatch escorts, Liadrin and Jaina.

"Is this what you expected?" Jaina asks. Her eyes filter and dance through the crowd, as if she's expecting an ambush or a revolt.

"It's better."

"I really hope so."

"You don't have to hope. Trust me."

Thalyssra looks at the long, gentle gradient of the land tipping into the sea. The water churns in anticipation of a coming storm. The taint of fel magic's still in the air, but only barely. Instead, the Forsaken have built their structures over the landscape. In the distance, the architecture of Suramar looms like shattered purple teeth through the fog.

Sylvanas is lost in the crowd of her Forsaken. Then, one of them detaches from it, heading in a straight line for Thalyssra. Others follow. The Duskwatch activate their arcane blades, and Jaina draws her staff–

"Stand down," Thalyssra tells them. 

It's only Anya. One of her ears has rotted away. In a dissolved chunk at her cheek, Thalyssra can see her teeth, so it looks like her jaw's permanently clenched. She extends her skeletal arm, cob-webbed with traces to flesh, to her.

"My Lady," Anya says. "She wants to see you."

"Now?"

"Yes."

Liadrin brushes a cloud of hair from her fringe, as Jaina starts. "Thalyssra?"

"No, it's fine. I'll go." 

Liadrin watches. Some of the Duskwatch begin to encircle the gathering. Jaina even follows for several steps. But Thalyssra gestures to them, and they all fall back.

Following Anya, Thalyssra parts through the crush of shorter Forsaken bodies like cutting through water. Flies dive-bomb her eyes. Dirt-ringed bones, unhealed flesh and rotting cheekbones everywhere. In her head, she hears the ascending whispers again. Thalyssra doesn't flinch away. It's the least she can do for those who've lost so much. 

When she reaches Sylvanas, the Banshee Queen's tattoos pulse and dimple with light. She reaches out for Thalyssra's hand, and when they connect, all the whispers in Thalyssra's head cease.

"Why?" Sylvanas asks.

"Your people need their queen."

"I'm nothing but a prisoner."

"Not to them," Thalyssra says. "Not to me."

Sylvanas frowns. But Thalyssra feels her cupping her hand, burrowing her thumb deep into the centre of her palm. She turns away to address her Forsaken, this time another of her Dark Rangers. The crowd advances, clamouring for their Dark Lady.

Above Sylvanas, lightning pulses in the sky. Racing black clouds gobble up the distant spires of Suramar. Sylvanas turns her head to the heavens.

A shroud of rain descends on them. They dance down Thalyssra's arms. They coat the plain of Sylvanas's upturned face. They lubricate the spaces where their fingers meet.

Neither of them lets go.

.

.

.

_**End Chapter 4** _

**[End Story]**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Begun in quarantine & unemployed. Completed while working full-time. This fic has seen me through the pandemic in my country. It's also the first time in more than six years I've crossed 10,000 words!
> 
> Thank you for reading, for your feedback, kudoses and comments!
> 
> I'm currently working on more Warcraft/ WoW stuff, one with Vereesa Windrunner and another with Thalyssra. 
> 
> As always, more questions:  
> 1\. Through the story, did you think Thalyssra's motivations on Sylvanas were clear? Or muddled?  
> 2\. How did you feel about the ending?

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this opening chapter. It's the second fic in the Warcraft universe I've written in my life, so I would value your feedback on the characters, lore and any other other points.
> 
> Lyrics at the beginning are from [Mashrou' Leila](https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCLD6mXESNzxX7EsTDHlGedQ), the best Lebanese band alive right now.


End file.
